


The Storm

by fab_fan



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Character Study, Drama, F/F, Gen, Introspection, Random & Short, Short, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28428141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fab_fan/pseuds/fab_fan
Summary: Raelle knew storms.Knew them better than most.It was why she went to the practice fields that first day of training.Was drawn in by the raging winds and crackling skies.It’s what she knew.It was...comforting, in a way.
Relationships: Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn
Comments: 10
Kudos: 44





	The Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Arguably takes place during Episode 6 of the First Season.

Raelle knew storms.

Knew them better than most.

It was why she went to the practice fields that first day of training.

Was drawn in by the raging winds and crackling skies. 

It’s what she knew.

It was...comforting, in a way.

Strange to think the fire and fury the army crow-ed about would be what made her think of home. Made her think of warm cozy quilts and snapping bramble filled campfires on dark cloudless nights where the stars glimmered like winking candlelight and the moon was a giant polished rock smoothed over by time and patience. Of dancing fireflies and chirping crickets. Tall gangly grass and rolling relaxed rivers. Of moonshine and whiskey and homemade biscuits. Broken down pickup trucks and busted radios that caught more static than song even when they did work. Leaking roofs in constant need of patching and burnt bitter gravel that stuck in the crevices of her boots and caught the sun and moon in dusty dips and long forgotten holes.

But, back home, on hot spring Cession days when there wasn’t anything around for miles except endless sky and flat plains, the clouds would swirl and simmer in ever blackening rage until mother nature unleashed her fierce anger upon the land. Winds would whip in from the south and battle with gusts from the north, scratching and snarling till the world bowed at their feet.

Sometimes, when she was younger, she’d sit up on the roof of her house. Watch as the storms formed miles away. Witness the lightning pierce the dark blue almost greenish purple air. Feel the charge prickle against her skin. The hairs on the back of her neck and arms standing tall.

A person could always feel the storm coming. Smell it. Knew rain was on its way long before the clouds appeared overhead. Could taste it on the tip of the tongue. Harsh and distinct. A warning from the land. Take shelter. Run away. Hide. The earth wasn’t happy. 

The goddess was upset.

Raelle knew better, though. Some folks said it was the clouds and the world riled up and unleashing a maddened burst of violence upon the people who did harm to the plants and animals.

It was some higher spirit slamming its fist into the ground. Wrecking everything in sight to spite the wicked and evil.

It was something to be feared. To agonize over.

Some folks said that.

Those folks were wrong.

Some people knew better.

Raelle knew better.

No, it wasn’t anger.

Not one bit.

It was life.

It was the wind and the rain and the spark of light needed to replenish the soil and feed the creatures roaming about the fields and tucked away in their ramshackle homes.

Storms weren’t to be feared. No. They were to be cherished. Praised. Welcomed.

A storm meant a full river. Meant green grass and fruitful harvests. Meant the market had produce and the hunters had game to feast upon.

Storms were good.

She slept better when there was a storm. 

The sound of the rain tapping rhythmically against the window was a lullaby far sweeter than any sung off key by her dad, the old man trying his best but unable to carry a tune. The rumble of thunder was like a gentle hand tugging the old needle stitched blanket further up her shoulders and caressing her hair to help her drift off to the land of dreams. Almost as if her mother was back from the war, sitting by the young girl’s bedside and watching over her silently, solemnly. Or her grandma, the old matriarch’s withered and wrinkled fingers browned with age and toil darning a hole in a pair of socks and humming in her rocking chair, the steady creak of the unpolished wood reassuring Raelle that she wasn’t alone.

In the brilliant flash of lightning, she could almost see her mama’s face. Sharp eyes and dour frown that softened when she settled her gaze on her daughter. Mouth moving as she explained how to fix. Heal. The give and take of power and balance needed to maintain life. To never give too much or take too little. Never share more than you should. In the thunder she could hear her grandma’s voice, strong and wizened, telling her to fetch the pan to help make breakfast or get away from those rusty disintegrating used car parts her son never should have brought home from the shop and pick up a book instead. 

Read her one of those passages from the bible till her mama’s letter came in the mail.

Get her mind off whatever trouble was brewing inside of it and focus herself on the strong cadence of the verses.

In the rain, she could feel the river that flowed near her house. Cold and crisp. Could smell the roads that led to her front door. To the local school. To anywhere her feet could take her. Dirt and rock and paths better taken by foot most days. A musty bittersweet moldy earthy sort of scent that clung to her nose as it covered her shoes. Harsh and hypnotic, soft and sultry. 

The Cession was in the rain. Without the rain, there was no Cession. No mighty river that flowed from far North all the way down to the ocean. No creeks or lakes or water for crops. No farms. No life. The rain gave life to the land. Turned the dusty bowl of dried up grass and broken creased soil into something more than a left behind place for nobodies and unwanteds. Where they were looked down upon because of the way they talked or the clothes they wore. Because they didn’t have much, but, what they did have...it sure could be something. 

Could be golden skies and pastures of every color imaginable. 

Rainbows and songbirds.

Beauty.

Comfort.

Life.

Walking to those storms that day at Fort Salem, Raelle walked towards home. 

Of course, she wasn’t blind to the fact that storms could destroy.

She’d seen a storm blow the roof off a house and rip a tree older than the town straight up out of the ground, roots and all.

She’d seen the world look as if it were about to end. 

She’d seen death.

Storms could be seductive. Dangerous. 

Lull you into a hypnotic wonder until it was too late and you were swept up. 

That was the thing to always remember.

Storms were beautiful. Strong. Ancient. Powerful.

Older and wiser than time itself.

Full of mystery and romance and visions of the past and future.

Wonders.

A goddess.

But, they could also kill. Cause fires that burnt entire fields into nothing more than ash and dust. Flatten whole villages. Decimate crops or knock down forests. Lift train tracks off their beds and carry them miles away. Scorch and drag and gnarl the land up into a nightmarish hell.

Storms were to be respected.

To be wary of.

To be cautious around.

Appreciate the beauty. But, do not get caught up in it. Always remember that a storm is still a storm. No matter how breathtaking it might look, no matter how much your heart may pound and jump and tremble with adoration and intrigue, with want and need, a need to touch, to feel, to experience, to be in the whirling chaos and awe, don’t forget that a storm will just as easily tear you apart. Drive you into the ground. Twist and tangle you up until there’s nothing left but a pile of broken shattered hopes and promises. 

Raelle might watch as the storms formed far off in the distance. Watch the tornadoes, fingers of God, the hand of the Goddess, scream and spin through farmland and forest.

But, she never let it get too close.

Took to safety before it was too late.

Kept her wits about her.

Only came out once the destructive twister was gone. Helped pick up the pieces and put them back together, maybe not as good as before, but sure as hell close.

Yet, damn, if a twister wasn’t a thing of beauty.

A miracle.

Awe-inspiring.

Something that a seed or bit of Work couldn’t recreate, no matter what any High Atlantic said or did. Not even Alder herself could truly capture the raw beauty of a true Cession storm. The flash in the air. The way everything seemed to snap and crackle. The colors of the sky. Blue and purple and finally black as night. The whistle that morphed into a wretched shriek. The sound of a runaway railroad engine barreling down upon them. The smell of the invisible water, not yet falling but just about to tip over the brink. Crisp and clean and rough. The way your body told you to run but also begged to stay. 

No, none of the seeds a blaster sung could match the true heart pounding spectacle of a real natural storm.

Raelle understood that. 

Raelle knew storms.

It was too bad she didn’t know them as well as she thought she did.

Didn’t recognize the storm brewing in ocean blue eyes that were actually shifting swirling darkening clouds. Didn’t hear the pitched howling wind in teasing tantalizing whispers. Didn’t see the flash of lightning in smirking pink lips.

Didn’t realize the twister consuming her in the form of wild hungry kisses and delicate shy fingers.

No.

She didn’t see the storm hidden inside Scylla Ramshorn. Not really. The signs were there. Her heart pounded. Her nerves burned and tingled. She could taste the change on her tongue. 

But, she forgot.

No, that’s not right.

Not completely.

She knew.

Saw it. Recognized it.

She chose to ignore it.

Chose to forget.

Forget to not let the beauty and majestic sorrow drag her in and never let her go.

Forget to run. Hide. Seek safety. Take cover. Not come out till the worst was over.

She ignored the warnings because she was in love with the storm.

She made her choice.

She threw herself headfirst into the chaos.

Threw herself into love.

Vowed her loyalty and devotion to a swirling unstoppable hurricane.

Storms are funny things, though.

Unpredictable.

Doing as they pleased. Going one way one second and changing direction the next. Just when you think you know where the storm will go, it turns and scatters the other way.

Just as she found herself twisting and turning in her own personal storm, another swept in and stole it away from her.

A storm took _her_ away.

_Scylla was swept up in the storm._

But, as Tally knelt before her in their shared room, Abigail hovering close by, worried but not knowing what to say, Raelle remembered.

She knew storms. 

She knew them better than most.

She had seen the storm that attacked the Bellweather wedding.

Felt it.

Experienced it.

And there was no way Scylla got swept up in that storm.

* * *

Scylla knew storms.

She knew them better than most.

The chaos. The anger. The pain. The absolutely all consuming turmoil and vengeful violence that hummed at her fingertips and curled against the back of her teeth.

It hadn’t always been there.

When she was small, barely up to her father’s knee, she was afraid of storms. Would hide under her blankets as the rain and wind struck at the windows and roof of wherever her family had ended up that month. Would close her eyes and pretend she was somewhere else. A bright sunny beach with a giant lighthouse guiding those lost back home. A boat in the middle of the ocean, calm and confident, water lapping at the sides. A grassy hill full of wildflowers and birds of every shape and color. 

Somewhere safe.

But, she couldn’t stay away from the storm, no matter how well her family dodged. No matter how well they pretended to be someone else. Changed their names or locations. Only spoke to a few trustworthy people. Kept to themselves. Polite. Courteous. Not standing out. 

Ghosts.

Barely whispers on the wind.

Hidden in plain sight.

But, no. No matter how much she wanted to hide, she couldn’t.

Not forever.

One can never truly hide from a storm.

She felt the darkness creeping in slowly. Pokes and prods. Slipping in like the light underneath a closed door. A flicker through closed drapes. A faint hiss in the distance that sparked a chill in her bones. A heavy foreboding bitterness that coated the back of her throat and clouded her mind in a way that made her see clearly. See what was happening to witches. What the Accord so many idolized and revered did to their society. Who civilians truly were to those deemed different.

Saw the shackles and chains binding those like her to people who hated them.

Slowly, it dawned on her like the rising sun how the world actually was.

The acrid darkness of awareness and knowledge haunted her.

Then, so fast there was no time to run, the storm descended upon her. No warning. No chance to do anything but quickly seek shelter, to hide, only to have the twisting sickeningly gruesome hate reveal itself in her soul as the still damp muted black of the garage drifted away to batter her heart with a pain she never knew was possible.

A pain so strong and pure and powerful she let the storm inside. Let the crackling bits of swirling scorching fury that had been forming within her for years, growing more and more every time her family had to run, had to move, every time she heard or read about another witch dying or saw a civilian belittle or insult her kind, let it all come together and bind into something as primordial and pounding as the deadliest of hurricanes. 

She gave herself up to the rage. 

She became the storm.

She unleashed fury in a cold bitter snowy blizzard that barely satiated her need. The need for freedom. For vengeance. To fight against her oppressors. To take back justice for her family. 

She let the storm do what she never could on her own. 

Let it seek out what she so desperately needed. Craved. Cried for. Ached for.

Her tears, like the rain, fueled the raging winds of her voice and the thunderous roar of her Work. 

The storm ravaged in search of freedom. Liberation. Justice.

Whatever regret or guilt she felt was overwhelmed by the monstrosity that only continued to grow. The belief that the Cause was just. Was right. That witches were dying every day for nothing. That her family was murdered for nothing. For people who hated them. Hated her. Hated everything about witches. That her kind, her people, were forced to sacrifice themselves in wars that had nothing to do with them. Were sent to die for people who called them names and cast them aside. Tortured and maimed them. Still burned witches at the stake. 

Stories spoke of storms as death. Destruction. Harbingers of a deathly fate. 

Scylla wasn’t afraid of death.

Death was complicated. It was...beautiful. 

People didn’t understand it. Not the way a necro did.

Understood that life was death was life again. 

The storm brought death.

But, death was what was needed if there ever was to be any life for witches.

The storm killed her family. Killed those she loved. Cared about. Fire and fury. 

A storm would bring about the death of conscription.

Scylla knew storms.

The witch knew them well.

Or, she thought she did.

Then, she met Raelle.

A storm unto herself. But, one that was gentle. Passionate. Could crack and rustle and shake the very foundations of the training room, but never destroyed. Never decimated what she touched. Didn’t kill. Instead...she nourished. There was sunshine in her smile and promises of hope in her eyes. Fields of green and endless light blue skies danced on her lips. 

There was a violence in the fixer. A volatility that could be ignited at a moment’s notice. Bared teeth and swinging fists set off at the drop of a hat or a select comment about a subject so deeply hurtful that the blonde could only react with emotion.

Raelle was pure emotion. Pure pain. Pure agony. Pure sorrow.

Pure joy. Pure goofy wisecracking humor. Pure unbending loyalty and unbreakable will.

Raelle was stronger than any storm Scylla had ever met. And, the younger witch didn’t even know it.

Didn’t know how her ability to crumble those around her with a well timed verse was unique. A gift. 

Just like Scylla didn’t know the storm she saw in Raelle’s eyes the day they met, the storm that hovered around her shoulders and braced along her skin, wasn’t the storm she thought it was. 

She thought she saw a kindred spirit. A fellow witch ready to join the Cause. Thought she understood why she was assigned to recruit the new cadet. Raelle was primed for the Spree. Already believed in the Spree’s words about slavery by another name and the horrible wretched heartbreak of loss brought about by the Accord.

Raelle was smart. She knew what the Accord was. What witches were subjected to.

What she was subjected to. Her mother had been subjected to.

But, the storm in her wasn’t the same as the one in Scylla.

The volatile violence within the blonde was used to protect. To help. To ruin herself instead of the world around her.

It drove her to almost die saving Porter. To vow to be by Scylla’s side, no matter what. To choose her own death as the answer to the slavery she was bound by instead of going after those who locked the cuffs on her wrists. Whatever hard gritty despair that churned in her eyes and scrambled along her lips lashed out quickly, soon pulled back, dissipating in a sense of sadness floating along gentle hands and a crinkled brow.

No, Raelle was not what Scylla expected.

Scylla found a kindred spirit when she approached the practice field that day. Saw the storm within the other witch.

What she didn’t know that day was the type of storm within Raelle.

How different it was to hers. 

Where hers was borne of suffering and despair, Raelle’s was always there, a Cession storm since birth. A bundle of emotions hastily packed away in a rambunctious ragged body. The darkness had crept further in, but it was not blasting out across the land. It was directed at herself. Instead of ripping buildings to the ground and tearing lives apart, she wanted to sweep back up into the sky. Away from the land and world that had taken so much from her. A hot garbage plan to die young on the front lines. 

The storm chose to consume herself.

Scylla found herself wanting Raelle to stay on the ground. She found herself wanting what she never thought she could have.

As the days passed, Scylla found her own storm quieting. Felt the sunshine on her skin and face. Felt the tender gentle breeze stroke her hair. Tasted lazy pure affectionate clouds on her mouth.

Scylla found herself getting swept up in Raelle.

Swept up in her storm.

She thought storms meant death.

The storm inside of Raelle, the storm that called to her, was life.

For the first time since her parents died, Scylla felt alive.

Alive and happy and embraced by a burning hot emotional hurricane of charming grins and cherishing touches. 

Felt the cold ruthless calculating blizzard inside of her begin to morph and grow anew into something different. Something...hopeful. Wishful. 

In love.

Scylla didn’t seek safety. She didn’t seek protection.

She knew the dangers.

Knew the risks.

She chose the storm, anyway.

She chose Raelle.

And, she woke up, bound to a chair in a cold damp basement because of it.

Swept away by a different storm.

One that spoke only of fire and fury.

One that didn’t understand anything about life or death or internal storms. 

Not anymore.

Maybe not ever.

As the door opened and Scylla’s eyes landed on General Alder, she refused to cower.

This woman thought she was fire and fury.

She wasn’t.

Scylla Ramshorn knew storms. 

Knew them better than most.

Alder’s storm was nothing compared to that of the Spree’s.

It was nothing compared to the storm simmering inside of her, causing her to hastily trace an S on her palm in the hopes of letting Raelle know she was still alive.

Still in love with her.

That the only storm she was swept up in was Raelle’s.

**Author's Note:**

> There you have it! A quick little story. Comments are welcome. You know the drill.
> 
> (Also, now I really want to rewatch Twister and write about Raelle and Scylla being meteorologists and stormchasers....gah!)


End file.
